A Domani, Italia

Good-bye Italy, for now.
I am sorry I don’t love you.

Mattia Barzaghi's vineyards, San Gimignano.

And after two summers in your grasp, I fear I may never develop that Frances Mayes, dewy-eyed romance with you.

Many of my friends yearn for your gold-dusted sunsets, your size 2 women in stilettos, your DOCG Chianti, blue-green Riviera shores, Etruscan artifacts, Limoncello, your David.

I am clear-eyed.

The way I see it, Italia is the Rivendell of the 21st century.

Back to Mediterranean Middle Earth in a moment.

But first, let me say there ARE many things I adore in Italia.
Chiefly – people.

Cristiano Papi, Florentine to the core.

For example, Cristiano - my partner in teaching travel and cultural reporting for Miami University in Firenze. Such a smart, funny and easy-going guy. He would be a friend anywhere.

Cristina, my landlord of two summers. Turn the air conditioning down so low it blows fuses across the 1500s-era building? “We fix this,” Cristina says, adjusting the remotes with a severe look, then sashaying out, waving her hands and laughing. Get stuck in the 4-by-4 elevator? “I was so worried, Aaaaaannie,” Cristina cries, her dark eyes showing that she means it.

Carlo, my Italian teaching colleague, who spent 8 long years earning at Ph.D. at Cornell in Ithaca, N.Y., where I also spent many years. “Too cold,” he says, shuddering and clutching his shoulders, then laughing loudly at his good fortune to be back in sunny Italy again.

Claudia, the Holland ex-pat living in Naples who can navigate a train strike like a pro. The courtly Lorenzo, unafraid to strike up conversations with middle-aged women outside churches, then invite them to coffee. Mattia and Cassandra, tending lives rich with art in San Gimignano. Jerry, the fashion photographer who came to Italy as an American college student 20 years ago and realized he’d been born in the wrong country.

These are some of the people who have touched me - an American living abroad without, shall we say, proper training.

And then there’s your beautiful countryside, Italia. Of that, I would never complain.

Wind surfers on Lago Iseo, Italia.

In fact, though I have found many quiet, green places in Firenze to get lost, I feel most comfortable in your rolling Tuscan hills, your Alps, your clear seas.

Your bella lingua. Your persistent recycling efforts.

Your love of art and word and symbolism. And the fact that you live relatively respectfully every day with rich heritage, millions of tourists. That you value quality and family and friends.

For these things, Italians are to be admired.

But my Mediterranean Rivendell, all the magically charismatic natives, vistas and envious tourists will not save you in a global economy that, for you, includes the long distrusting arm and currency of the EU.

Church at Castelvecchio ruins, San Gimignano

This is also what I also see after two summers with you...
You hate change.
Your higher education system is broken.
You often lack ambition.
Your justice system is often unfair and impractical.
Your trade unions dictate your economic landscape – at least those parts that the mafia or Silvio Berlusconi doesn’t control.
You are sometimes sneaky (especially the older women who jump lines everywhere).
You objectify women and futbol and food and immigrants... and tourists.

Sunset over Firenze, Italia.

The Rivendell-esque characteristics are everywhere.
Golden sunlight washing over crumbling buildings.
Boastful egos still reveling in Medici accomplishments of centuries ago.
Siestas in the middle of a work day.
Threadbare clothing worn with handmade leather shoes.

Songs of passion that cannot carry a future’s tune.

Arrivederci, Italia.
But also, perhaps, a domani.